Bubble up

Usage examples of spume.

A tour shop, its entrance flanked by glass-cased, bright-lit posters showing the vast rise of Olympus Mons, the gorge of Marineris just as vast, Io spuming yellow, red, and black, the desolation of the lunar highlands, coral reefs on Earth, fishless and stark, Earth itself viewed from orbit.

Two bullets struck it, but the powder spumed and fell, was caught by the wind, and Sharpe saw it, like musket smoke, drifting on to the assault troops.

The curve of Lune lay just visible in the east, sending streamers of virescence toward him in a silent flood, spumed and uncanny.

Color went swiftly out of it: greenstone to apple jade, jade into chrysoprase, prase into beryl spume.

As the waters ran away, leaving their spume behind to melt into the sand, a few of the plovers, sanderlings and funny beat-tailed grackles gave chase.

Clouds of birds exploded screeching from the grass like nervous spume before a careening sea vessel.

Next to him a seascape showed a ground-effect vehicle thundering over a white-topped swell in a blast of spume.

In a sudden wave they burst upon the awestricken men, a grotesque spume of emerald and crimson-veined shadows.

Punch padded across to peer out over the lake in search of a break in the clouds, but the sky hung dropsically purple, without a gleam of clean light, and the wind drew whip-lashes of spume across the muddied surface of the lake.

He came blasting out of space, braked with a spume of fiame from the forward jets, and kicked the Weekender into a tight spin around the junkheap.

One moment I was tossing out witty comments to anyone who would listen and the next I was bent over, throwing up a grey spume of tea and biscuits into a patch of jewelweed by the back steps.

And the goose in the oven began to burn, first slowly, then so fast and pungently that Grandmother Matern in her over hang room above the kitchen set her eyeballs spuming faster than the sails of the windmill were able to.

Day after day, a gray and brooding wind nags at the mangroves, hurrying the unruly tides that hunt through the broken islands and twist far back into the creeks, leaving behind brown spume and matted salt grass, driftwood.

They had departed in fits and starts, in mishaps of fogbound flights and broken landing gears that held them up, or down, hindered by spuming radiators and traffic jams on the interstate, panicked by eleventh-hour losses of tickets and passports and vital addresses written on lost scraps of paper in disappearing ink.

It fell almost half the distance in a single straight leap, unhidden by spume, agleam like a drawn sword.